The Fourth Francis Vallemont novel.
by Frank Almond
Prologue
There was no doubt that the young woman was looking at her. Her heart beat a little faster, as she purposefully moved across to the other side of the crowded market to look at another book stall- to see if the woman- a rather poorly dressed young woman, perhaps her own age, twenty-five, or a little older- would follow. And to her great excitement- she did! And pretended to be perusing through some ballads, though from the corner of her eye, she could tell the woman was still watching her.
They were standing in the towering nave of the great Norman cathedral of St Paul's- or, to most Londoners, simply: Pauls, for it was not used as a place of worship these days. It had become the centre for the City's book trade- and since many well-to-do people shopped there, it was also the haunt of countless petty villains and prostitutes. Could this woman be a prostitute? she wondered. Her faded and a little threadbare clothes- though fashionable enough and clean- had that look of Birchin Street about them. Birchin Street was where ladies of quality sent their maids to sell their cast-offs and where the less well-heeled women did their clothes and shoes shopping, particularly, women of the street, who, rather comically, could often be seen wearing colourful gowns intended for evening wear only, around Thames Street fish markets and along the South Bank at nine o'clock in the morning. But this woman, in sombre blacks and greys and pinks was too tastefully turned out to be a whore, surely.
She blushed when their eyes inadvertently met, and then the woman quickly looked away and pretended to be interested in a display of pamphlets about the recent claret scandal. But as her eyes returned to her, she could see she wasn't really reading one, she was just holding it open and waiting for something. She might not even be able to read. And if she could not read- that would not be good. How could she hold conversations with a woman who could not read? That would not do. She turned away from her and changed her mind. She would not do.
She was just coming back into the dusty sunlight pouring in through the high entrance arch, when she felt something brush against her. It was a very slight laying on of a hand- like velvet, but in her heightened state of awareness, she had positively felt the charge imparted by a human touch. She turned and saw the startled pale face of the young woman who had been tracking her. Now she was looking at her up close, she could see that she was even more attractive than she had looked from a distance. Her eyes were that green like sunlight through leaves. She was fair and clear skinned and her face was perfectly proportioned. Like an angel's. And she knew a lot about angels. The nose, perhaps, was a little too turned up, but everything else about her was most becoming, yes, very becoming indeed. She saw the woman's guilty eyes and the purse still held in her hand and realised the woman was no angel, but, in fact- a pickpocket!
"Give that back to me!" she snapped, and snatched the purse from her trembling hand, and began putting it away somewhere safer this time, in the bottom of her bag. Her father had often warned them about the thieves who inhabited the precincts of Pauls, and how they had to be on their guard.
A watchman saw the two women confronting each other and was quickly approaching them from the archway.
"I'm sorry," said the woman, casting her eyes down. "Please don't report me. I can't go to prison. I'd die."
She looked at her and she looked so contrite and ashamed that her heart went out to her. "Keep quiet," she said.
The young woman flashed her eyes at her and her lips parted in surprise and pleasure, to reveal two neat rows of even white teeth, like a little double carcanet of pearls. But the elegant young lady was not looking at her, so she looked down again.
"Everything all right, madam?" said the watchman to the better dressed of the two women.
She looked at the pretty young woman. Her face drained of colour. She looked lean and hungry. Underfed. A little frightened now, yet, strangely, proud. The woman raised her leaf green eyes up to hers. And the two women recognised something in one another and smiled, almost in relief.
"Everything is fine," she said.
"Madam," said the watchman and turned away.
"Thank you," said the woman, and licked her lips, a confident smile now playing on them. And her bright green eyes were suddenly alive.
The wealthy looking young woman took her eyes off the captivating eyes and looked around a little anxiously.
"Would you like to go for a walk?" said the pickpocket.
She returned her eyes to the very pleasing face. "Where?" she said.
"Well, we could walk up to The Curtain," she suggested.
"Isn't that place full of men," she said.
"Yes, but they won't bother us," smiled the pickpocket. "Will they?"
And then she took her by the arm and the two women walked out into the sunlight together.
The Daughters of the Draper
Hugh Shevington got up from his desk, high in the Master's office of Skinner's Hall on Dowgate Street, and looked out of the window again. He had a fine view of the slate-grey Thames and the street below. But he was not really looking at anything in particular today. And he could not settle to his work. He returned to his chair, restless and impatient to be going. A few minutes later he got up once more and went to stare out of the window again. What did it matter if he left early for a change. He pursed his thick red lips and considered that. Yes, he would leave now and go home. He could not concentrate anyway, he was too excited, his mind was on the drinks party he was going to that evening at the Hartscombes. Yes, he would go now- but wait! He had arranged to meet Francis Vallemont. He had asked Francis to meet him at four down in the lobby. And it was barely past three. He had just heard the bells of St Michael's- across the Wallbrook- tolling out the hours. He returned to his desk once more and slumped down. He hadn't felt this excited since his wedding day. How long ago that morning seemed to him now. Where does the time go? Ten years. He had seen ten years pass by him. in the flowing waters of the Thames; in all the bright new furs unloaded down at the Vintry Quay; in all the lonely nights- heard them tolled out, almost mockingly, to him by all the church bells. Ten years. He had been blissfully married for just one year to Sarah. And that was all the time Heaven had allowed them, before she had been cruelly struck down by the sweating fever. Although in this case it did not spread, though they had taken the precaution of burning everything she touched. At first- when the affliction visited them on the Friday- they had simply thought she had caught a heavy feverish cold, but by Monday he was burying her at St Gabe's. A lump came to his throat, as he remembered her. It hurt him that his memory of her, her face, was fading, and he realised she was someone he had barely known. But how beautiful she had looked on their wedding day, that much remained- and how happy they had both been- and yet how sickly pale and cadaverous she had looked when the angels finally came for her on that terrible Sunday afternoon. God, he would never forget that ordeal. Or how strong his widowed mother had been. What a rock she was, what a woman to have by his side in that dire hour of need, when he had lost his dear sweet Sarah. And almost his mind.
But now, at last, he had met a new woman. And he was going to see her tonight. Her name was Grace Hartscombe and she was the eldest daughter of his new friend, Walter Hartscombe, a well-respected Draper's Company liveried man, and very wealthy, too. And although he had only met her once, his heart had skipped a beat as soon as he laid eyes on her. The only mystery was why such a beautiful young woman had not already been taken, for she was five and twenty years of age and would bring a large dowry with her, but her father had assured him there was no credible young man seeking her hand. None Grace would accept at least. The Hartscombe women led a quiet life down at Peverley Farm, their father's estate in Kent. Peverley Abbey was a former Cistercian monastery with a lake and close to four hundred acres of good arable land attached to it. Legend had it that the white monks had built their monastery there after their leader had a vision of an angel walking on the waters of the lake. It was this story that had first drawn the young Walter Hatrscombe to the property, but now he had a mind to sell it, and that is why he had also invited the wealthy Goldsmith, Sir John Houseman and his wife, to the little soiree he was giving at Sidon Street that evening.
When I wrote the opening scene- I had to for something later in the book- I was directly inspired by Sarah Brightman's This Love, which perfectly set the slow, strange atmosphere of the encounter I was looking for, when I heard it. I had already created the scene in my mind, but the music made it come alive for me. Just an example of the power of music on our imaginations and how helpful I find it when I'm thinking about writing. I don't usually play it when I am actually writing- only when I'm making notes. Or, more often, staring blankly into space, waiting for something to come into my mind. I'm also playing Sarah's Dust in the Wind.
This novel features Hugh Shevington, who appeared in The Murder of Errors, fleetingly, and was briefly introduced in An Unreasonable Request. This will be a hallmark of my Vallemont books- characters will come and go and be woven in and out of them, as the chronological story of Vallemont progresses, from one whodunnit to the next, and his life changes. It's an ambitious project, but one I have decided to pursue, whether these books sell or not, because I enjoy it. And I hope to wear you all down with my persistence!
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